Of Wishing, Wonders, and Wounds
by Freedom909
Summary: Book II - Sequel to Of Hockey, Harmonies and Husbands. With Montparnasse gone, Éponine must learn how to live for herself, but at what price will her own freedom come? Between haunting memories, self-loathing, and stalking. Will she deny the one person who loves her most? Will she ever fully heal? [Modern AU]


**A/N: The long awaited sequel is here.**

 **Now, I can't promise fast updates because honestly, all I saw was this first chapter and the beginning to the second. So, this just needs some more planning. But your thoughts, your questions, and your predictions are welcome because then perhaps, it just might spark something in my mind.**

 **The one thing I can promise is that this story is one that will build slowly, and in this chapter, there isn't much action, but it sets the tone for the story to come. I'm praying you all like it…it's a bit _different._ It kind of throws you for a loop a little, but it makes a full circle, I don't think you'll get too lost, you guys are smart.**

 **So, if I get any new readers, I'd recommend checking out** _ **Of Hockey, Harmonies and Husbands**_ **first, which can be found in my bio.**

 **Disclaimer** **: I do not own Les Miserables, or any references that may come up while writing.**

 **Thank you all, I love you and I've missed you! Glad to be back!**

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 **Of Wishing, Wonders, and Wounds**  
 **The Sequel to Of Hockey, Harmonies and Husbands**

Chapter 1 — Of Reverie and Reality

...

She saw a blinding white light.

It was the white of fresh snow that had just fallen atop rolling hills; the white on the tops of waves before they crash into an impenetrable stone; the white of the sky as the clouds cover the heavens, before they swell with anger and release a torrential rain; the white of lightning that is seen for merely a second and gone in a flash, leaving a memory of the strike in sight. The white was pure, pallid, and in a way, it was comforting. Though she was no longer pure, her virtue long gone, and no longer pallid, her skin covered in purple, white still belonged to her as no other color did. It was unpigmented, natural, as soft as her skin, as bright as her fresh laundered coat. White defined her. White was her.

The light overtook her senses, claiming her entire being. She could not see, she could not hear, she could not feel or taste. She didn't exist—if only for a moment. She shut her eyes and the light was gone, white replaced with black.

Light and dark. Paper and ink. Good and evil.

She blinked slightly but repeatedly and soon the blinding light fell away. Blue emerged in her vision and the white became small puffs above her. A familiar face came into her view, blocking out the sun entirely. The blinding sun shadowed the face as it looked down at her with a small little smile. "Did you hear anything I was saying?" he asked.

Slowly, she sat up, removing her head from the comfortable spot in his lap. "You were telling me about your teacher...?"

"'Ponine, I was talking about your essay, the one you have due in the morning." His words were as light as the brisk air around them.

"Oh." She dropped her eyes to the fleece blanket beneath, uneven by the grass it sat on. "Right...what about my essay?"

He tossed his eyes back. "You're not going to pass ninth grade if you don't take care of your grades. You have got to start caring more. Otherwise where are you going to end up? Working at some dead end job? Still living at home?"

She gave a small shrug and laid back down, just as before—with her head resting in his lap. But this time, she faced away from him, laying on her side, choosing to stare down at his converse-covered feet, rather than up at his face. While he berated her, she didn't want to see his beautiful face carved with disgust. If she wanted that, she would just go home and see her father. She wanted to enjoy what precious time to herself she did have and she didn't feel the need for it to be spoiled by Montparnasse and his ranting about self-improvement.

"Do you think there's a God up there?" she asked softly, her breath leaving a warm spot on his jeans.

He closed his mouth suddenly, abruptly, surprised. "Of course God's up there," he scoffed, a hand caressing the outline of her face, pulling her cascading hair from her eyes.

"Do you think he knows I'm here?"

He went to retort, but she kept going.

"I mean, out of all the people in the world, do you think he knows about me? Or knows that I'm alive? That I'm Éponine Thénardier, living here in Boston, sitting out in a field under a water tower on a blanket? Honestly, do you think he cares?"

He pursed his lips for a mere second. "And what about the birds? Or the ants? Do you think God knows they exist?"

"Well, does he?" She turned to her back, looking up at him once again, her eyes burning with curiosity, an unfathomable light that could not be extinguished.

"He does." A single firm nod. "And if he cares about even those little animals, don't you think he cares about you?"

This time, she was the one who scoffed. "It's hard to believe he cares about me. Birds live better than I do."

"Éponine," he said, her name sounding serious, grave. "Do you think God cares about me?" He waited for her answer, but she only shrugged. "He does. He wouldn't have given me you if he didn't care about me."

Her eyes met his, locked onto his, searching for the truth from his perfect cherry lips. His hands continued to caress her face, brushing along her nose and the plump curve of her bottom lip. It took forty long seconds for her to finally blink her eyes away from him and towards the stretch of green grass around.

"I mean it." He paused, finding his breath. "You're the only good thing in my life and that was God's gift to me."

She swallowed and rolled onto her side, his shoes coming into her view once again. "God is dead. That's what dad says."

"I think he is very much alive."

"Dad said, 'Christ died, and the same day God died and all his Holy Spirit too.'"

His fingers stilled in the long tresses of her hair, stopping right before the ends, tangled in a loose weave of strands. "But you don't believe that, do you?"

She shrugged again. "I don't know what to believe."

The small strokes of his fingers began once more, pulling on her hair to bring her onto her back, forcing her gaze to meet his. For a long moment, he stared at her, a calm look, a small smile. Beauty was etched in his youthful face, seeping out of the creases by his green eyes, the little wrinkle in his nose, and the fading freckles on his cheeks. He tucked his hand beneath her neck and gently lifted her head from his lap. He bent his curvaceous, unsurpassed, scarlet lips down, hovering only centimeters away from hers, waiting with just a enough time to send a breath deep into her lungs. Then he matched his lips with hers, letting her taste all of his beauty. He pulled away after a quick second to leave her lacking. "Then believe in love," he whispered.

Her eyes widened, her heart opened, the blood pounded through her veins. Somehow she managed a soft, "Okay," and never took her sight away from him.

With a little laugh, he began to stand to his feet and tapped her shoulder lightly. "We should be getting back, before the sun starts to set."

She groaned, the bliss falling away slowly but surely. She protested rising to her feet as he asked and let him escape from beneath her, her head falling hard onto the tough ground.

Standing, he looked down to her, a hand already pulling at the blanket she laid on. "Get up, Éponine, time to go."

"But can't we stay a few more minutes? I don't want to go home yet."

"Don't you have to make dinner? What's your dad going to say when you come home late?"

"I'll only be a few minutes late, I can handle it if he yells at me for being a few minutes. Please, can't we just lay here a little longer?"

"And what will he say when _I_ bring you home late? It won't be good for either of us. Let's go." He pulled at the blanket again but she wouldn't move.

Instead, she rolled onto her stomach, propping her head up by her hands, elbows digging into the grass. Cold gleamed in her eyes. "Lay back down, 'Parnasse."

"Get up, Éponine." He folded his arms across his chest, sending daggers at her and her childishness.

She huffed. "I won't tell him I was out with you. This one will be all on me. I don't see the problem. Just lay back down with me for a few minutes, it's not a big deal."

In an instant, he grabbed the blanket from underneath her and yanked it out, sending her off and into the dirt. A whimper left her throat when she fell in a heap. The blanket now freed, he set about shaking it out and folding it up into a square.

She rubbed the back of her head, sitting up and tucking her knees to her chest. "Ow, 'Parnasse. That hurt."

"If you had got up like I asked," he said, indifference in his voice as he tucked the blanket under his arm, "it wouldn't have hurt. But no, you have to fight with me. You love fighting. It's no wonder your dad always beats you."

Clenching her teeth, she sat there, looking down at the ground, trying to calm her hurt feelings. "I just wanted to sit with you for a few more minutes, I didn't want to go home just yet. Why do you always have to do that, 'Parnasse?" She sent her eyes up to him before she jumped to her feet, fists drawn together at her sides. "Nothing can ever be nice. We can never have once nice thing. You always have to ruin it. You always have to ruin everything!"

The blanket dropped, fire racing beneath his fingertips. His heart sped up unlike anything he had ever felt before. He didn't ruin things. He was trying to fix them, trying to protect her. How dare she get off telling him this is his fault. The fire assaulted his heart, growing, flaming his mind, causing his temperature to rise, causing his pale skin to flush. But the fire ceased to be put out by the glare she sent him, it only fueled it further—like gasoline, like aerosols, like alcohol—growing, flaming higher, spreading. Instantly, the fire fell to his hands. He took one strong step forward and swung the back of his hand. For a whole second, it flew through the air until it collided against the side of her head.

A bullet through her brain—it was something so quick and over before she even realized what had happened. It took a second for the pain to flare. Her whole cheek burned, blistered, blazed. But worse than the pain was the shock. Even his mouth had dropped open, even his eyes went wide, even he retracted his hand from the fire that had consumed it.

"Éponine," he said quietly, his foot faltering back a step before he placed it in front of her, drawing closer.

Instantly, she withdrew, turning her whole body to the side, shutting him out as she grasped onto the pulsing point of pain. She had no words for him, no thought flew through her mind, instead she stayed in shock, knowing full well how to protect herself.

"Éponine," he whispered, another step closer.

She froze.

Still, he reached out his hand, a tentative motion, trying to show her she had nothing to fear, that she need not fear _him_. She stayed motionless until a single hand touched her shoulder. When she didn't pull away, he enveloped her in one sweeping movement, pressing her deep into his chest, burying her face in his shirt, and squeezing—what should always be—his protective arms around her.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, the words muffled into her hair. "I'm sorry, Éponine." He pressed his lips against the top of her head as hard as he could, muttering between every breath, "I'm sorry."

"Éponine?"

"Éponine? Do you hear me?"

She lifted her eyes from their fixed position, staring vacantly at the white sheets wrapped over her leg and tucked into the small mattress beneath her. Her eyes rested on the woman sitting before her in a plastic hospital chair, back straight in a pressed navy suit. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a bun, her face devoid of all makeup. There was a badge the swung down from around her neck with the very same picture of her face on it, the logo for the Massachusetts General Hospital, and a name in small font: Adelaide Olivier. Rapidly, she tapped her pencil against her clipboard, lip pursed, and eyes boring into the dead woman.

A steady beep alerted Éponine of her slowed heart—her broken heart. It was such a steady beep that persisted ceaselessly, telling her she was still living even if she didn't feel like she was. Her heart was so crumpled, it was numb. She felt nothing, she was nothing. She didn't feel the pain of the unhealed lashes she gave herself, she didn't feel the white bandage wrapped heavily around her throbbing shoulder, and she surely did not feel her heart beating. It was as if her heart had vanished from inside her and took all her energy, all her hope, and all her love with it.

"Yes, I hear you."

"Thank you," the woman responded, her words so smooth, it made Éponine want to claw out her throat. "So how did it happen?"

"I already told you. I was fifteen when he first hit me."

"I know." She paused to gather a breath. "Were you alone with him?"

Éponine's eyes narrowed, locking onto the sharp gaze of the social worker. "I was fifteen when it happened."

"Did you tell anyone?"

"He apologized for it." She looked down to the hand laying across her lap. The little band of gold still shimmered, even though the glow had long faded away. "He felt bad about it."

"He felt guilty?"

She gave a single nod, her lip on the verge of a tremble. "He held me so tight, he hugged me, he kissed me. He did everything he could think of to make it up to me. He let me play with the radio for the drive home and put on what I wanted. He held my hand until I walked in the front door of my apartment. I was late getting home that day..." She swallowed, wetting her lips and still never raising her eyes. "My dad wasn't happy."

"What did your dad do?"

"I forgave him." She shrugged. "He said it would never happen again...and I believed him," she said, her voice cracking. "I always believed him."

Dr. Olivier put down her pencil and shifted forward in her seat. "Éponine, lots of women believe that. That doesn't make you at fault. You trusted him, and there is nothing wrong with that. Do you understand what I'm saying? Lots of women—"

"I was fifteen when he first hit me."

Tiredly, Dr. Olivier sighed. She gathered her pencil and tucked it into the top of the clipboard. Slowly, she rose to her feet, watching as Éponine still never lifted her head to watch her stand. "I'll come back tomorrow. I think we'll try something new."

Éponine had no words for her. She said nothing. Simply, she heard the doctor's footsteps die away and drift down the hallway where they echoed on empty walls. Good riddance to her and her intrusive questions...at least until tomorrow. For tomorrow they would try again, the doctors, the nurses, Dr. Olivier. They all wanted to know, they all had questions, yet they only knew the very basics of what happened and who her husband was. But Éponine preferred to keep it that way.

She was left in the cold hospital bed, in the cold room with nothing to do, with no one to speak to, with nothing but her thoughts—which always had a habit of driving her mad. Yet the sun was sinking in her window and she knew it would not be long now before another face arrived to monitor her wounds and check her breathing. Yes, she would not be alone for long. But until then, she waited.

She waited with vacant eyes, staring endlessly at nothing. In her vision lied the plastic chair Dr. Olivier had sat on, she saw the black T.V., she saw the white painted wall and the strip of plastic divider that encircled horizontally around the room. She heard the beep of the machine, telling her she was still alive, and heard the drip of her I.V., keeping fluids in her even if she refused all else. Everything was sterile, everything was untouched. The same even of her dinner that sat on a tray nearby, and it would sit there until morning when an orderly would come and replace it with breakfast just as it did the day before. The same would happen to her breakfast the next morning, and to her lunch, and to her dinner until finally, the pangs of hunger would gnaw at her and she would eat. But until then, she would not. She didn't feel hunger, she didn't feel anything.

She stared across the room until her vision blurred and her eyes filled with water, forcing her to shut them and feel the sting of rehydration. She liked that feeling. And she would do it again and again until her eyes grew heavy and her vision turned black.

...

The chair scraped.

Her eyes shot open and the white of the room replaced the black of her world. They landed on a familiar face. Seated before her was someone she was not afraid of. This was someone she didn't mind, someone she almost liked seeing.

"Hey," he said, his voice as soft as the curls that fell into his face. "I didn't mean to wake you." He forced a weak smile, shifting in his seat and scooting it closer to her bedside. "You can go back to sleep, I know it's late. I'm just going to sit here for a little though."

Gently, she rolled her head to the side and looked out her window, but all she saw was a reflection of the room in the black abyss of night. "What time is it?" she asked.

"A little after ten. Combeferre let me in to see you for a bit, otherwise I'm not supposed to be here."

She nodded, turning her head back to look at him and into his bright blue eyes. After everything, they had never dulled, never burnt out, never grayed. It was a mystery to her. How could they possibly still bleed so blue? Why was there still hope beveled into them?

"I left work early tonight to come and see you. I'm working the next five days in a row, so I'll have to come in the morning."

Her mouth didn't move. She stayed silent.

"How was your day today? Have the doctors given you anymore news about your shoulder? Is the pain medication working?"

She shrugged, almost wanting to laugh. Pain medication. How funny it actually was. Yes the medication dulled her tempestuous shoulder, yes she could not feel her own cuts, or the bruises, or the scars. Yes, the medication was working. It took away her pain. It took away all the pain she wanted to feel—for the pain was the only thing she had left of him. And he was gone now. "Have you heard anything?" she asked.

His grit his teeth, his square jaw growing prominent, becoming chiseled like statue. She used to love that about him. "No," he sighed. "Nothing."

She shut her eyes and opened them after a deep breath. "You think he'll come find me?"

"...I hope not."

"Do you think the police will find him soon?"

He sighed again, letting out a heavy breath. "I hope they don't. I think this is finally a chance for you to start over, to have a real life. The longer he stays away, the better for you it will—"

"I didn't ask for your opinion." Gone was her fragile personality and a formidable woman took her place. Her dead eyes came to life with a fire, piercing through him, sending daggers into him, hoping it would hurt. "I asked if you think they will find him soon. So Enjolras, do you _think_ they will find him?"

He ran a hand through his curls, leaving them tousled in its wake. "Yeah," he muttered. "I think they'll find him."

"Good." She relaxed against her pillows and closed her eyes. "I hope so." Seconds ticked by and she opened her eyes, casting them to the black window on her left. She shifted over, turning her back to her friend and grunted.

"Careful," he said, automatically rising to help adjust the blankets over her but all the while taking cautious consideration not to touch her.

Her restricted shoulder throbbed tirelessly beneath the bandages, trapped under the sling and her own body weight. She knew this position would only cause her more pain, but she didn't mind, this was what she wanted. She stared off, letting her eyes lose focus and meld the black of the window with the white of the room. The night had come so quickly, in just the blink of an eye it seemed, but the same could be said of her days. They passed by frequently and quickly, morning turned to night, night turned to morning. Each day felt like an hour.

She heard him sit back down, yet he said nothing else. He breathed. She always heard his breaths, neither deep nor quiet. Yet because of that, she loved when he came to see her. His breathing and his mellow voice always lulled her to the land of dreamers. So she waited, listening intently to each breath he took, waiting for her own eyelids to droop once again.

"I'm sorry," she said as her eyes nearly found solace in a closed state.

"Why?"

"For not thanking you." She picked her head up and looked to him over her shoulder. "I don't mean to get upset. And it...it means a lot that you're still here, that you still sit here even if I get mad at you. So, I'm sorry. I just, I don't know, I don't know what I want, or what I feel. I don't know what to do."

"That's okay," he whispered. "You don't have to know anything just yet. It's only been a week. These things are going to take time."

"But what about...what if..." Her eyes shut and she turned her face away from her only friend. "I don't know—"

"Hey."

His voice made her peek over her shoulder once more and she saw him reach out a hand, then he bravely rested it on her upper arm.

"No matter what, Éponine, I want you to remember something, okay?"

She waited for him to continue, curious eyes boring into him, wanting to know.

"You are not worthless."

His words were resolute, founded on that spark of passion that drove him here, that drove him to do whatever he could for her, that drove him to protect. She had never heard him speak like this before, so convincing, so promising, she wanted to believe him. And deep in her heart, she was afraid that one day, she might.

When she turned her head back around and nuzzled her face into the pillow, he let go of her. "Do you mind if I sit here for awhile still?"

She shrugged.

"I'll talk and you just listen." He fell back in his chair and put a small smile on his face. "So, earlier today, the man came into the bar, and he started ordering Chinese food. And I was like, 'We don't sell that here.' And he was like, 'Isn't this Dim Ling's?' And I'm like, 'No, this is the Musain. We're a Bar and Grill.' Do you believe it? This guy thought he walked into a Chinese restaurant. There isn't even one on the block..."

His voice began to trail off, fading far away, muffling, become smaller, softer as she drifted into oblivion. But her oblivion did not come peacefully this time. As her blackness engulfed her, her nose lingered awake and she smelled it before she saw it.

She smelt smoke.

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 **A/N: Aww! Thank you for reading and taking the time. So yeah, if you've got any ideas that could help this story, or any predictions. I'd love to know!**

 **Thank you again, I look forward to talking with you all again and seeing how this story goes. Haha!**


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